She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath; 1172 And says within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death; She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears. “Poor flower,” quoth she, “this was thy father’s guise, Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire, For every little grief to wet his eyes, To grow unto himself was his desire, 1180 And so ’tis thine; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. “Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right: 1184 Lo in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower.” Thus weary of the world, away she hies, 1189 And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies, In her light chariot quickly is convey’d; 1192 Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen. FINIS